


The "Through The Looking Glass" Affair

by jessebee



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, M/M, Slash, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessebee/pseuds/jessebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you know," Napoleon said, "that somewhere in this world, it is said, we all have a twin?  A double, someone who looks just like us."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Author: jesse  
> Genre: Crossover (A-Team, one episode only), AU, fix-it fic, future fic  
> Pairing: NS/IK  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Word count: large  
> Summary: "Did you know," Napoleon said, "that somewhere in this world, it is said, we all have a twin?  A double, someone who looks just like us." 
> 
> Disclaimer/Warning: THIS STORY IS NOT FINISHED. Characters are not mine, sadly. Close lid before depressing handle.
> 
> A/N: While I could never claim to have been much of an “A-Team” fan, nevertheless the episode “Say U.N.C.L.E. Affair,” featuring RV and guest star DMc, caught my imagination. Neither character was particularly nice, but yet there was something there, something that made me wish to see them “rehabilitated,” and for NS and IK to have a hand in it. This story is my humble attempt. A few bits and bobs appropriated from the “Return” movie, but otherwise none of that thing ever happened.
> 
> As stated above, THIS STORY IS NOT FINISHED. Honestly, I don't know if it ever will be, although I like to hope. I hesitate to even call it a WIP. But. That said, there's a good 17000 words of it that do exist, and the story idea is close to my heart, and it's something of a shame that no-one but me and spikesgirl (I think) has ever seen it.

_the end of the first part_

[1972]

 

Prologue

 

  
  
  
"Napoleon."  
  
"I need to know, Doctor."  U.N.C.L.E./Northwest's Chief Medical Officer opened her mouth again but he cut her off.  "Yes, private and confidential and all that, but this is his CEA talking, not his partner.  I need to know his exact condition and his prognosis.  When he will be able to get back into the field."  
  
The look McAllister gave him was hard and level.  He wasn't fooling her, he knew, but he didn't care, not as long as it got him some straight answers.  "Mr. Solo," she said after a pause, "Mr. Kuryakin will not be going back into the field."  
  
The words didn't compute.  "Excuse me?" Napoleon said finally.  "It's a broken leg."  
  
"Broken?  Mr. Solo, _shattered_ is not too strong a word for what we're dealing with.  Leg, hip -- if the man lives past his other injuries and ever walks again, and knowing Kuryakin, I'll lay decent odds that he will, it will still be something of a miracle.  But he won't be certified for field duty again.  And by that time, it won't matter anyway."  
  
It took a few seconds to make the connection.  "Illya won't be forty for more than a year!"  
  
"Precisely."  
  
He didn't realize his knees had given out until his butt hit the chair.  Then McAllister was back in front of him, very close.  She took his hand, wrapping it in her small, strong, warm ones.  "Napoleon."  
  
"It's ... that bad."  He didn't even know what he was saying.  
  
"Napoleon, before this is over, Illya is going to curse me, you, and the entire med staff to hells we've never even heard of.  Getting him healed is going to be a long, slow process.  He'll wish I'd never patched him up.  Worse, he'll wish you hadn't dragged him out of there."  
  
Napoleon sucked in air, and looked up into McAllister's warm brown eyes.  "But he'll be alive to bitch about it, Cindy.  That's what matters."  
  
#

 

 

_the second part_

[1987]

 

 

Chapter One  
  


 

"…and Panama still isn't too much more than rumor. Beaty's last report had the impression of something being moved, but he's still unable to get a handle on it."

 

"And Beaty's pretty subtle, considering." Napoleon pursed his mouth. "Rodriguez got back in last night. Have him fly out and join his partner ASAP. Between them they should be able to shake something loose. Okay. Anything else?"

 

"One more thing." Lisa Rodgers produced another folder from somewhere and handed it over.

 

Napoleon flipped it open and read. Turned the page.

 

Stopped.

 

Stared.

 

"Okay, this _is_ a joke, right?  Section Four getting a head-start on April Fool's?"  
  
Light gleamed off of short dark hair as Lisa shook her head.  Napoleon had thought it a tragedy when she’d cut it a few years ago into one of the currently popular styles; Lisa’s opinion of his opinion had been a triumph of subtle insult and made him laugh out loud.  Now a smile pulled at one corner of her mouth.  "No, actually, it's not.  I checked out available sources and it wasn't hard at all to find verification.  School yearbooks, driver's license, military records; the early ones, at least.  The CIA was a little harder."  
  
Napoleon whistled softly and leaned back into the depths of his chair, considering.  "Does he know about ...?"  
  
"You?  I would assume so.  He's been around long enough."  
  
"And he wants our help."  
  
"He believes we have resources that he hasn't been able to access, which is most likely correct," Lisa said without a trace of exaggeration.  "The US Army is hardly multi-national or unaligned, and the CIA is hardly unbiased.  And considering he's looking for someone who could be behind the Curtain ...."  
  
Napoleon studied the photograph, then dropped it on the desk and pulled off his reading glasses. He'd yet to get used to the damned things. He rubbed one eyebrow.  "Was he polite about it?"  
  
"Eventually, I'm told."  She sounded amused; Napoleon looked to see a subtle twinkle in the eyes of his Number Two, Section One.  "Somehow the message never quite sticks that we really aren't an American agency.  But it didn't take too much to get the point across.  I've tried to train my people up right."  
  
Having seen them in action, Napoleon didn't have to imagine.  "As Waverly trained you."

  
"Yes.  Sometimes ... I still expect to see him when I walk in."  
  
"So do I, Lees.  Especially on days like this."  Sometimes he swore he still smelled Isle of Dogs #22, even though it had been years and the Old Man had always seemed to polish that pipe far more than he'd ever actually smoked it.  "So, the man our questor is looking for?"   Lisa handed him yet another folder.  Napoleon flipped it open and started to read.  Then his eyes went wide and he stared up at Lisa, who nodded.  " _Really?_ "  Her smile broke free this time, and he started to laugh.  
  
#

 

  
Napoleon looked up at the shush of the door to the "inner sanctum," the small room off the office of Number One, Section One; the one that was so secret, Napoleon himself had never known of it until he'd been on the verge of becoming that Number One. Now, even though there was only one person other than himself for whom that door would open, he still looked.  Field agent instincts never died, it seemed.  "Evening, partner.  How goes the war?"  
  
Illya Kuryakin made his way across the small room, the catch in his stride barely noticeable any more except when he was quite tired.  Like right now.  He dropped himself into the big, plush wing chair that sat in the corner by Napoleon's overstuffed club, tossed his silver-headed cane onto the coffee table with a clatter of metal and wood, and sighed, long and deep.  
  
Napoleon eyed him.  "That good, huh?"  
  
A guttural, Slavonic mutter issued from the depths of the wing chair.  "What heinous, unforgivable thing did I ever do to you," Illya continued, in English, "that you put me in charge of Section Three?"  
  
"Uh-uh, that was Waverly, remember?"  
  
"And yet he is gone, and I am still there."  
  
"Because they need the best, Illya, and you are it.  Hey, we were young once, too."  
  
Against the indigo leather of the chair, Illya’s hair glowed more a rich old-gold now than the bright silver-gilt of his field years. The clear blue glare, though, was sharp as ever.  "Napoleon, I was _never_ that young.  Nor, I suspect -- at the risk of feeding your ego -- were you."  
  
"Not after Korea, anyway," Napoleon said, conceding the point.  "But you like being lord and master of the info feeds, don't even try to tell me you don't."  
  
"Hmm.  That is nice," Illya allowed with a familiar half-smile, closing his eyes.  But a weary line rode between his brows.  
  
Napoleon stood and walked over to the credenza, and poured two glasses full from the pitcher of martinis he'd made earlier, as he did most evenings, in anticipation of Illya’s company.   Crossing back, he handed one across to Illya who took it with a murmur of thanks and a sip, eyes closing once again in appreciation.  Napoleon reclaimed his seat and considered the man next to him.  His partner for over twenty years, although not officially for the last decade as far as U.N.C.L.E. was concerned, not since they'd been forced out of the field, Napoleon by age and Illya by injury.  But his partner nonetheless.  What Alexander Waverly had joined together, neither god nor mortal had yet managed to put asunder, thank you and good night.  Not even Napoleon himself, with the bone-headed maneuver he'd pulled back in '68 --     

"I can smell the smoke from here, Polya."  Illya's amused voice broke into Napoleon's ruminations. 

"Did you know," Napoleon said after taking a sip himself, meeting that cool blue gaze over the rim of his glass, "that somewhere in this world, it is said, we all have a twin?  A double, someone who looks just like us."  
  
One dark wheaten eyebrow rose.  "I've met yours already," Illya said dryly, "back in 1964.  Not my favorite affair."  
  
"Surgery doesn't count," Napoleon replied and leaned forward to retrieve the file that had been lying captive beneath Illya's cane, and toss it into the Russian's lap.  
  
Illya regarded the file, then Napoleon, with an expression of narrow-eyed irritation that hadn't fooled Napoleon in years.  He took another mouthful of alcohol, glass in his left hand, before turning the file in his lap and opening it with his right.  Napoleon started counting, silently.   
  
Five seconds was all it took.  Illya jerked, eyes going wide; Napoleon rescued the glass before gin hit the upholstery.  "This _is_ a joke, yes?"  
  
Napoleon grinned.  "That's what I said.  But Lisa says he checks out."  
  
" _Bozhe moi_ ," Illya said under his breath.  He touched the photograph with the tip of one finger.  "Napoleon.  The resemblance is ...."  
  
"Spook-y?"  
  
Illya’s mouth twitched.  "Very funny.  No, 'disturbing' would be more the word.  One of you is all the world should have to endure. But, he is quite obviously not you."  
  
His partner sounded utterly sure.  Napoleon tilted his head.  "No?"  
  
"No.  Around the mouth, the eyes.  There is something ... hard, there; something bitter."  
  
Napoleon tipped back most of his drink in one go, abruptly wanting the burn.  "I'm a fairly hard man myself, Illya."  
  
The blond head shook once, firmly.  "Not this way.  Not even when ... no.  This man, Stockwell; he's lost something.  Himself, perhaps."  
  
"And there you go with the psychic thing again.  He has indeed lost something, and he wants our help finding it.  Or rather, him."  
  
Illya read for another few seconds, and then he groaned low in his throat and dropped his head into his hand.  “You will _**swear**_ to me that this is not a joke,” he said, voice muffled; with what, Napoleon couldn’t tell.

“Scout’s honor.”  Napoleon held up a hand.

“Which you never were.  Because the setup is too perfect, you know.  General Stockwell is looking for his former partner.”  Illya laid his head back against the chair, eyes closed, and Napoleon saw the laughter now, lurking in the set of his mouth.  “Who happens to be _Russian_.”

 

“Small, strange world, ain’t it?”

 

Illya snorted.  “Give me that glass back.”  He drained it and set it back on the corner table with a solid click.  “And a refill would be nice, thank you.”

 

Napoleon took care of that, grinning.  “So,” he said, when Illya had resettled both alcohol and composure, “the partner – Ivan Trigorin.  Did you ever know him?  Know of him … ?”  _In your work before U.N.C.L.E.?_  A question that Napoleon had asked more than once but had never, in all their years together, actually voiced.

 

“Ee-von.”  Illya tweaked the pronunciation absently, his attention back on the file.  Napoleon rolled his eyes; twenty years and Illya _still_ wasn’t happy with his accent.  “Really, Napoleon.  It’s probably the most common name in Russia, although Trigorin is not.  Which doesn’t matter, as it’s undoubtedly not his real one.  Hhm.  No file photo?  Odd.  I’ll get that corrected.”  Illya raised his head, looking thoughtful.  “I had a cousin once, named Ivan.”

 

“Once?” Napoleon repeated.

 

“He died, during the war.”  No need to ask which one; Illya’s “war” would always be World War II.  He closed the folder and let it rest in his lap.  “Napoleon, this has little to do with us that I can see.  Trigorin's been a lone wolf since he left the CIA and since his death – reports of which, according to Stockwell, have been exaggerated – his employers, the Chinese, apparently, have written him off.  There is no international threat here; this is personal.  U.N.C.L.E. does not do personal. All right," he said off of Napoleon's look, "U.N.C.L.E. doesn't do this kind of personal. Why does Stockwell think we should become involved?”

 

"Personal?" 

 

"They were partners for _ten years_. In _this_ business. At their last meeting, according to our sources, Trigorin was attempting to run Stockwell down when the general shot at and blew up the van Trigorin was driving. How could it _not_ be personal?"

 

_So speaks my pragmatic partner_.  Napoleon tilted his head.  “I don’t know, but I’ve got a hunch.  Shall we talk to him and find out?”

 

“Never mind your hunch – it’s your curiosity working here, and possibly your vanity.  You just want to actually _see_ this doppelganger of yours.”

 

“Illya, are you implying I have impure motives in this matter?”

 

“You haven’t had a pure motive since I’ve known you.”

 

Napoleon grinned at him again.  “You say the nicest things.”

 

#


	2. Chapter Two

The door of the outer office of Number One, Section One slid open at Illya’s approach.  He had just a moment to take in the two dark-haired figures seated at the venerable round table; Napoleon on the far end, and half-way between --    “Ah, good, you’re here,” Napoleon said.

 

“Ten-thirty, yes?” Illya replied.

 

The visitor’s head snapped around, and he stood up so sharply that his chair squealed back.  “ _Ivan._ ”

 

Illya stopped dead in the middle of the room, his eyes narrowing and his grip on his cane shifting.  Even being ready for it, the man’s resemblance to Napoleon was positively eerie.  The hazel-brown eyes, the style and sweep of sable hair, graying at the temples; even the manner of dress was close. But this man wore the hardness Illya had seen in his picture, and an old arrogance in the lines of his face where Napoleon wore a warmer humanity.

 

What he hadn't been ready for was Stockwell's reaction to _him_. A tiny voice at the back of his mind – the one he named 'gypsy' and would never, ever admit to – screamed that he _should_ have been.

 

“General,” Napoleon’s voice swirled into the stasis, smooth as cream, “may I introduce my long-time friend and colleague Dr. Illya Kuryakin, Head of Enforcement and Intelligence.  Illya, General Hunt Stockwell.”

 

“Retired,” Stockwell said, apparently on autopilot, still staring at Illya, eyes wide with – what?

 

“General,” Illya returned, evenly, allowing nothing of the slow roil in his gut to show on his face.  Resuming his walk to the conference table, he seated himself one chair away from Napoleon and on the far side from Stockwell.  His brief glance at Napoleon confirmed that his partner had set up this little tableau quite deliberately.  It was, of course, Napoleon’s prerogative and duty to use any and all U.N.C.L.E. personnel as he saw fit and necessary.  But it was Illya’s privilege, earned in blood long ago, to give him unholy hell for it.

 

“Have a seat, General,” Napoleon said coolly, and that seemed to recall Stockwell to himself.  He blinked, then reached around for his chair and sank into it.

 

“I take it, General, that I resemble someone you know,” Illya said, cloak of calm firmly in place.

 

“Resemble.”  Stockwell’s short laugh held wonder, but no humor whatsoever.  “Doctor, you’re a dead ringer for him.  For my former partner, Ivan Trigorin.”

 

“The man you’re looking for.  The man you want U.N.C.L.E. to help you find.”  Napoleon was leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed.  

 

"Yes," Stockwell said shortly.

 

"Why have you come to U.N.C.L.E. for this, General?" Napoleon asked. "You have avenues of inquiry, resources of your own."

 

"A thorough man looks for information everywhere he can, Mr. Solo." The general focused on Napoleon, the too-familiar voice segueing into a smoothness that raised the short hairs on the back of Illya's neck. "Sometimes – the organizations I work with can be slower than I like. Or hard to convince of the urgency of the situation."

 

"You mean that they think he's dead," Illya said bluntly, lacing his fingers together on top of the table. "I would agree with them."

 

Stockwell's gaze snapped back to Illya. "And you would be wrong, Doctor. Ivan Trigorin is very much _not_ dead."

 

"You shot him, General, or rather the vehicle he was driving; blew it sky high and burned it. The few remains recovered were judged to be Trigorin's."

 

"It was not him." Stockwell enunciated each word, his voice flatter now but his eyes disturbingly intent behind the tinted aviator glasses he wore. Illya heard Napoleon take a soft breath. "We were partners for ten years before he – chose to leave. I know the man better than anyone, every bend and twist. I know what he's capable of, and the things he could do now that he's back in the game. He must be found, gentlemen, and sooner rather than later."

 

"Because you need to find him?" Illya almost turned at the odd, subtle note in Napoleon's voice.

 

"Because he needs to be found. There are questions he needs to answer."

 

"Such as?"

 

"Such as those pertaining to our national interests, Mr. Solo. That's all you need to know."

 

Napoleon was silent for some moments, and Illya watched his partner from the corner of his eye. Something had Napoleon edgy, but far, far nastier than Stockwell had tried to rattle Napoleon Solo without ever making a dent. So, what then?

 

"Very interesting, General," Napoleon said finally, "and possibly even compelling, but we are still missing the most important piece here. Why is finding Trigorin so important? Your own agencies don't seem to think so. Why should U.N.C.L.E. get involved?"

 

“He’s a threat to our national security – “

 

“Of the United States, you mean? Even less reason, then, to come to us. U.N.C.L.E.’s concerns, General, are and always have been _inter_ national security.  Your Mr. Trigorin isn’t anything of a ripple in the pond now, if he is in fact still alive.”

 

Stockwell’s chin came up.  So like Napoleon and yet so very unlike.  “He’s alive, and he needs to be found.  That’s all I am at liberty to say.”

 

“Then I’m afraid our meeting is at a close.  I hope you enjoyed the coffee.”  The click of a switch.  “Ms. Rogers, would you have someone escort General Stockwell to the entrance?  This place can be confusing, after all.”

 

It wasn't ten seconds before the door slid open and Lisa herself appeared to play guide, she must have been just outside, but neither Napoleon or Stockwell moved. Identical sets of dark eyes remained locked on each other until Stockwell finally rose to his feet, inclined his head the very slightest bit to Napoleon, and turned on his heel to follow Lisa from the room.

 

 The door shut behind them.  There was the softest exhale from Napoleon.  Illya gritted his teeth and counted to five before he turned.  “All right, where is it?”

 

“It?”

 

“The _picture_ , Napoleon.”  His partner raised dark eyebrows in an expression of ignorance that Illya was having none of.  “That you _removed_ from the _file_ ,” Illya said, glaring.

 

Napoleon’s generous mouth rounded.  “Oh, _that_ picture.”  He reached into his suit coat.  Light winked blue off of the ever-present star sapphire on his left hand as he drew out a piece of photograph paper and offered it to Illya, who took it with a snap.  And caught his breath.

 

Blond hair that swept back from the high forehead rather than covering it, unhappy mouth, arctic blue eyes that had seen too much.  It was like looking into the same glass that showed Stockwell as a reflection of Napoleon: a mirror of what might have been, had fate been less kind.  He was indeed, as Stockwell had said, a dead ringer for Trigorin. 

 

Illya dropped the photograph on the table and put his hand over his eyes, and breathed. _Yes, he used you. Again. No, you cannot kill the manipulative bastard because you'd miss him. Entirely too damn much._ "Napoleon."

 

"Yes?"

 

Illya dropped his hand and looked at his partner. “Why?”

 

No pretense at misunderstanding this time.  “Because I needed to see his gut-level, unscripted reaction.  And the chances of that were better if your reaction was – unscripted, as well.”

 

“And _what_ did you think you’d deduce from that?”

 

“His intentions.  His real ones.”  The veneer of Number One, Section One, U.N.C.L.E./Northwest finally slipped, leaving just Napoleon.  “I can’t – “   A breath, and the amber-brown gaze dropped.  “I won’t even consider helping him find Trigorin if he means to kill him.  I won’t help a man with my – “  _I won’t help a man with my face to kill a man who wears yours_.

 

Irritation faded a bit in the echo of the unspoken words.  Illya reached out and laid his right hand over Napoleon’s left wrist and squeezed. His hands had always been big for his frame, bigger than his partner's, in fact; broadened by early training, musical and otherwise. Napoleon’s square-tipped fingers were somehow nearly as slender as they’d always been, knuckles barely thickened even after years of throwing punches.  Capable, agile hands.  Illya swallowed.  “Is it lunch time yet?”

 

“It is if we say it is.”  There was a smile in Napoleon’s satin voice.  “Sometimes it’s good to be king.  In or out?”

 

“Of here?  Out.  Most definitely out.”

 

#

 

Napoleon sprawled back across the bed, arms flung wide, sweaty and panting.  Illya collapsed beside him and appropriated his left biceps for a pillow, hair feathering across his skin.  An arm across his chest and a leg settled carefully and precisely over his thighs completed the capture and Illya sighed.  Napoleon smiled.  “Happy?  Deed signed, flag planted?  Ouch,” as Illya pinched him.  “Don’t make me think you care, or anything.”

 

“I’ll try not to,” Illya said, his voice low and a little breathless. “It’s just that you make an excellent leg-rest, and I’d hate to have to bother with finding another one.”

 

“Mm.  I live but to serve.”  That they’d come far enough to joke so casually about it, after the long, jagged hell of Illya’s recovery, was a gift that Napoleon would never, ever take for granted. 

 

“How fortunate that you do it so very well.”  Silence for a space of heartbeats slowing, bodies cooling.  “A shame that your doppelganger wasn’t willing to talk, but frankly, not surprising,” Illya murmured eventually, fingertips caressing idly along Napoleon’s ribs. "I don't like him."

 

Napoleon blinked; Illya rarely personalized a case. “Well, Army, CIA – neither’s known for caring and sharing.  I think he will, though.”

 

Illya snorted.  “Care?”

 

“Share.”

 

The hand petting his chest stilled.  Then Illya shifted up on one elbow and looked down at him, one eyebrow raised.

 

“Eventually,” Napoleon qualified.  “But sooner rather than later.”

 

Illya raised his other eyebrow.

 

"Something happened between the two of them, something – catastrophic. Something still unresolved," Napoleon continued, running a finger along the hard muscle of Illya's forearm. "What did you see, when you were staring each other down?"

 

Both eyebrows twitched this time and Illya's gaze shifted away, as if Napoleon's collarbone was the most fascinating thing ever. "Confusion," he said reluctantly. "And – longing, perhaps."

 

Napoleon nodded. "He has to find Trigorin, find a resolution." He paused, wondering if he should continue. "It's what I would do."

 

The blue gaze snapped back to his, boring in. “Napoleon, _don’t_ project your own motives and reactions here,” Illya said softly, blunt as ever.  “That man is _not_ you.”

 

“I know he’s not.”  _But how much of him is there in me?_

 

#

 


	3. Interlude

 

 

 

 

_No._

 

The room was comfortable, beautiful, polished wood and books, books, books, a fat leather chair to read them in.

 

_Oh God, no._

 

Comfortable and warm but he wasn't, was he – he was cold and stiff, he'd been here forever, it seemed, waiting, waiting in this most congenial of prisons and he'd locked the door himself, oh yes. He'd run far and fast and buried himself here because he was already dead, wasn't he? Dead and cold and it didn't matter, because Illya wasn't coming for him this time, not this time. Not ever again – _he himself had made sure of it –_

 

_**No.** _

 

Napoleon came awake with a gasp, staring blindly until the familiar ceiling of their bedroom came clear, and then closed his eyes again and breathed deep, trying to slow his racing heart. Jesus _wept_ , but he hadn't had that one in years –

 

A low, interrogative sound from his left, and Napoleon laid a hand on Illya's arm and rubbed gently in a years-old sign language: _no danger, just a bad dream_. Another soft sound from his bedmate, this time a blurred loveword in Russian. Then, “Don' be up too long.”

 

“No,” Napoleon said quietly, gave the arm a final pat and slipped out of their warm bed.

 

Minutes later, fingers wrapped around a hot mug of chocolate, he stared out at the lights of New York until they blurred into the past, the skyline of nearly two decades ago. 1968, the year of the room of his nightmare. The year he'd tried to walk – hell, run – away from everything he had once believed in, from everything he held dear. From U.N.C.L.E.

 

From Illya.

 

Had it not been for that stubborn, beloved Russian....

 

“Too close, _dushka_ ,” he murmured, and took a sip. “Much too close.”

 

#

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

His office phone buzzed and Napoleon stabbed the button without ever looking at it.  “Yes?”

 

“General Stockwell, sir, on line 3.”

 

Well, finally.  That had taken longer than he’d expected, it had been over a week.  Napoleon’s mouth quirked.  “I’ll take it, Janice, in a minute; thanks.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Sometimes he missed the days when he could coax most of the “girls” into calling him by his first name.  “Sir” only reminded him of the time that had passed.  He finished the lines he’d been writing, and punched another button.  “Solo.”

 

“Mr. Solo, this is Hunt Stockwell.”

 

Not General?  Interesting.  “General Stockwell.  To what do I owe this surprise?”

 

“Mr. Solo, I am in New York tonight and I’d like to buy you a drink; perhaps we could have a talk somewhere other than your office.”

 

Very interesting.  “Well, that’s kind of you, but I think we covered everything the other day.”

 

“No, actually, we didn’t.  I find there is more – information available, that might have bearing on the situation.”

 

Napoleon smiled and leaned back in his chair.

 

#

 

  

The bar come restaurant was a classic, dim and smoky and run by a retired U.N.C.L.E.. Located not far from the old agents' entrance, it had been one of Napoleon's favorite places for years.

 

"Mr. Solo," Hunt Stockwell said, "I’ll give you the courtesy of believing your Network is as good as I’ve heard.  A number of years ago, I was involved in an operation codenamed as 'Javelin.'"

 

“Informant group in Cuba,” Napoleon said thoughtfully, fingers easy against the base of his glass.  “With a sad ending, unfortunately.” _I also know you were censured for it, you and Trigorin both._

 

The general nodded curtly. He still wore his tinted glasses, despite the low light, but Napoleon saw the shadows beneath his eyes, deeper than they'd been a week ago.  “The whole network lost.  Trigorin and I were both captured.  He got me out; I don't remember how.  Both of us a little worse for wear, though.”

 

Napoleon could more than imagine.  Castro’s people hadn’t had any love for Americans then.  Still didn’t.

 

“That was Ivan’s last mission, with me or our employer.  He quit shortly after.”

 

"Why?"

 

"Besides Cuba, you mean, which he thought should be obvious? That he was too old, too tired, too slow to – " Stockwell blew out a breath. "A bunch of crap reasons that I didn't believe even then," he said, looking like he'd rather be chewing glass than having this conversation, "but that was it and he was gone. Disappeared for a while and then turned up in academia, working in psychology, which didn't surprise me. He said he wasn't avoiding me, but somehow there was never time for more than a rare card, or more rarely yet, a phone call. I didn't see the man again until …."

 

"Until," Napoleon prompted, into the pause.

 

"Two months ago, he called. Directly, on a line he shouldn't have been able to access, with old call signs only the two of us knew. He wanted to meet, face to face. I should have known then that something was up -- in fact, after I checked, I _knew_ something was up, but…." He shook his head, a tiny movement.

 

"Partners," Napoleon said simply.

 

 Stockwell's gaze sharpened, eyes assessing. "You. And Kuryakin." His pronunciation was precise and formal, to the flip of the 'r' that Napoleon rarely bothered with. Taught by a Muscovite, probably.

 

Napoleon acknowledged the hit with a tilt of his head. "Ten years can be a very long time." _And how long would we have been apart if Illya hadn't come after me?_

 

"I hoped at first that he was responding – finally – to an offer I'd made him, to work with me on what was then my current project. Turns out he had a project of his own, and it was related to mine. I'd caused an – item to be acquired for my people. _His_ people wanted it too."

 

"And they sent him to negotiate."

 

His doppelganger grunted. "In a manner of speaking. Just a little kidnapping and interrogation; nothing personal, you understand."

 

"Hmm." That had sounded like a quote. Napoleon sipped at his drink. This place still understood how to make a proper Gibson, thank God.

 

"He had to resort to drugs, of course, which got him no further than asking nicely did. I've never broken and I never will."

 

Napoleon barely held in the snort. Under the right conditions? _Everyone_ broke. _Was I ever that arrogant? Possibly. Sorry, Illya…_

 

"Ironically, I didn't actually know the information he wanted; the job had been done by a team of mine. But even if I'd said that, Ivan wasn't inclined to believe me. What the drugs _did_ dredge up was something neither of us expected, or particularly wanted: a truth I'd forgotten – or blocked out – about Cuba." Stockwell's gaze was distant, miles and years away. "Like I said, I've never broken. But Ivan did. And twenty-seven people died." Fingers rapped once against the tabletop, like a drumroll. "I told him that if I'd known that then, I'd've killed him myself."

 

_Catastrophic_. Napoleon lowered his eyes for a moment, then tipped back the last of his drink in a silent toast to the dead, even though something unpleasant was coiling in his stomach, adding to the tension built up over the last week.

 

"But since then, more things have come back. Dreams; flashbacks, maybe, that don't – mesh with what I – thought I knew. And questions." The hazel-brown gaze, so like and yet so unlike that which Napoleon saw every day in the mirror, focused back on him. "Questions, Mr. Solo, for which I need answers. And for those, I need Ivan. Will you help?"

 

_You called it, I.K.; this is very, very personal_. "Not if finding him will kill him," Napoleon said evenly. His left shoulderblade was starting to itch.

 

Stockwell's expression was hard, but his eyes told a different story. "It won't."

 

"The last time you two met, it almost did."

 

"Both ways – Ivan gives as good as he gets. You want my word? You have it. All I want are answers, to finally set the record straight. What happens after that will be up to Ivan."

 

Everything Napoleon had read on paper said that to this man, loyalty to country was above all. Reading the man himself, though – Napoleon's instincts, honed by years of Alexander Waverly, were saying something slightly different. "You're sure he's alive."

 

"I sifted that wreckage, Mr. Solo. Personally."

 

_This man is_ _ **not**_ _you,_ Illya said again in Napoleon's mind.

 

_And I_ _ **won't**_ _be him. But how close did I come, back in '68?_ Napoleon leaned back in his chair. _Of course, if this goes bad, you'll probably shoot me, won't you, tovarishch?_ "Come by my office in the morning, General. These kinds of plans are better made on a good night's sleep."

 

A quick flash of something in Stockwell's eyes, there and gone. "I always sleep well, Mr. Solo," the general said as he put both hands flat on the table and pushed up. "I have no qualms. My conscience and my laundry are clean."

 

_Liar_ , Napoleon thought as he rose also, clamping down on his annoyance. _Or I hope you are. If you sleep well in this business, you don't_ _ **have**_ _a conscience._

 

"You are doing a service for your country, Mr. Solo."

 

"My country, General, has nothing to do with this. Have a pleasant evening."

 

Stockwell looked at him hard, then gave him a slight incline of the head and turned for the door. Napoleon watched him go, then sat back down.

 

He toyed with his empty glass for a while, and ate some of the peanuts he'd appropriated from the bar. Then he pulled out his communicator, which had been sitting open in his breast pocket, and gave it a little twist. "So, what do you think?"

 

"I think that you already know what I think, so why do you bother to ask?" Illya said, his voice slightly tinny but the irritation coming through quite clearly to Napoleon's well-trained ears. "It's a bad idea, but you're going to do it anyway."

 

Illya's temper fired Napoleon's own, already dry and primed by a week of exposure to his partner's disapproval. "We need to help him."

 

"No, apparently _you_ need to help him," Illya retorted. " _I_ don't agree. He's got a quest? Fine. I wish him luck. Leave U.N.C.L.E. out of it, it's nothing to do with us."

 

"Illya, what if it had been us?"

 

"For God's sake, Napoleon, _he's not you!_ It could never have been us!"

 

" _Illya_."

 

" _Yes_ , sir." The words practically froze in the air, ice to Napoleon's fire. "I'll start drawing up plans. Kuryakin out."

 

Napoleon stared at the now silent instrument for a moment before he closed it with a snap. Damned recalcitrant Russian. He rose from the table again and headed for the door this time, knowing that the owner would put everything on tab and send him the bill care of U.N.C.L.E., as always.

 

Oh, Illya would do as Napoleon asked, of course he would, but he would, as indeed he already had, make his displeasure known every damned step of the way. And ask questions Napoleon wasn't completely sure he had the answers for. A light breeze lifted Napoleon's hair as he started down the block, absently noting the suits that were Number One, Section One's eternal escort falling in behind him. He'd walk some of this off before he radioed for the car, otherwise he'd be taking Illya's head off when he got back to HQ, which would do neither of them any good. Napoleon had learned the value of walks like this in the year after Illya had been injured, when the Russian's pain and frustration had blistered the air at high volume and in at least five languages.

 

Napoleon breathed deep and let it out, and kept walking. Yes, all right, Stockwell was an ass, but that wasn't the reason he'd gotten under Napoleon's skin like this, much as it pained Napoleon to admit it. Or rather, it was, but not quite the way Illya probably thought. But how to explain without dredging up…hell. The sidewalk, cracked and stained, slipped away beneath his feet. It wasn't that he was projecting his motivations onto Stockwell, no. It was that he was afraid that he recognized –

 

Motion out of the corner of his eye and he turned, but too late. _Not_ his escort. Pain exploded along his left temple even as he swung, catching one assailant in the gut. An arm around his throat, cloth and sickly too-sweet in his nose and the world went hazy as somebody put the lights out and _stupid, stupid,_ _Illya really_ _ **is**_ _going to shoot me –_

 

#

 

_Obstinate, know-it-all_ _Amerikanski_.

 

Illya had set the research wheels in motion and then buried himself quite deliberately in another project that had nothing at all to do with what he was most emphatically not thinking about, but he looked up now as the chime sounded. "Come."

 

His office door slid open to admit Sarah Johnston, Number Two Section Three and one of his oldest friends at U.N.C.L.E./Northwest. It had been Sarah, in fact, in her then-capacity as Waverly's assistant, who had first introduced him to Napoleon. Illya's jaw tightened. "What do you have?" he asked, his tone brusque.

 

Sarah had worked with him for far too long to be bothered, but she did raise one dark, elegant eyebrow. "Not much, but a few things I think are legitimate." Illya scooped what he had been working on aside and Sarah sprawled the folder across the vacated space. "Sightings here, here and here," she said, tapping listings on the top sheet, "which indicate movement to the south, out of California. Which I believe makes this report, in Mexico, accurate. But it's this one here, in by the Panama border," she tapped the facing page, "that is the most interesting."

 

Illya skimmed the information, and then sat back with a grunt. "THRUSH."

 

"That's what it looks like, and sings like," Sarah agreed. "But it _doesn't_ look like Trigorin went willingly."

 

"And this was three days ago." His thigh ached dully, a little more than usual. Illya realized he was rubbing at it, and forced himself to stop.

 

"Yes." Sarah paused. "Napoleon still isn't back?"

 

"As I said, he took a w– " Illya looked at his watch, and swore, viciously, in German. He'd lost track of the time. Too long a walk, even for Napoleon in a temper. Far too long. And if he had to be honest, it wasn't Napoleon who had the real temper, it was Illya himself. He thumbed a switch on his desk console. "Napoleon, where are you? Napoleon." Nothing. Not even static. " _Napoleon_." His gut tightened. He flicked another switch.

 

"ComSec."

 

"Kuryakin. Has Mr. Solo returned?"

 

"He hasn't come in by any of the entrances that we can check, sir. Nor has he requested to be picked up."

 

_Chyort_. Illya punched the button for the 'private' private line, the one Napoleon had had installed between Sections One and Three shortly after he'd taken Waverly's chair. "Napoleon," he snapped, acutely aware of Sarah beside him.

 

Nothing.

 

He switched back to Communications, then stopped, turned it off again and turned to Sarah. "Put a trace on Napoleon's communicator," he said, his voice as even as he could make it. "And find me General Hunt Stockwell. Yesterday."

 

#


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

It was long past midnight when Stockwell was ushered into the "war room," as Napoleon had laughingly named Illya's outer office. "General," Illya said. "Have a seat."

 

"I think I'll stand. What is this about, Dr. Kuryakin?"

 

"Napoleon Solo has not returned to this building, General," Illya said, cold as winter.

 

Stockwell stared at him, eyes narrowing. "And I was the last one to see him, I take it? Doctor, I've got every interest in Mr. Solo's continued good health and safety. I need his help."

 

"Yes, you do." It wasn't a question.

 

A tilt of the dark head and a half-smile. "You don't like me much."

 

Illya didn't twitch. "My only interest in you lies with clearing up the situation in which Mr. Solo has embroiled us. Like or dislike – both are irrelevant."

 

"You've found something."

 

The man was perceptive; Illya would have to give him that. "What do you know about THRUSH?"

 

"THRUSH? The organization?" Stockwell put both hands on the back of one of the chairs that fronted Illya's desk. "Nasty bunch bent on world domination. Post World War II, very active in the 1950s and 60s, early 70s. Mostly your problem; not much on the CIA's radar, really. Crazy. And defunct."

 

Illya's mouth twitched. "Defunct? Your sources do you no credit, General. THRUSH is, sadly, far from defunct. And it is with them that we will find Mr. Trigorin."

 

Stockwell's hands went white-knuckled on the chair back. "With a bunch of nutcases like that? He wouldn't." Flatly.

 

Illya studied the man, refusing to allot any more emotion to this than he would to a specimen slide. "We don't think he went willingly. The question is – why do they want him at all?" And nearly caught his breath as the obvious answer hit him.

 

Stockwell's mouth twitched. "Mistaken identity? And maybe now they've got a set, one of mine and one of yours. You may need my help too, Doctor."

 

His desk console bleeped and Illya flicked the switch. "Yes?"

 

"We managed to pick up Mr. Solo's signal," Sarah said. "Just for a few moments, but long enough to get a trace. Central America, heading toward the coast; possibly an island – "

 

" – somewhere in the lower Caribbean," Illya finished in tandem with her, shaking his head. "How original."

 

"Isn't it just?"

 

"Send me the coordinates. And have a jet on standby." He worked with the transmission computer for a moment and then looked at the map which had appeared on one of the wall screens. Caribbean. Central America. Panama. Why was he thinking of Panama?

 

"Never been fond of the Caribbean," Stockwell remarked, almost under his breath, and Illya looked over to see something that Illya might have called pain, had this been Napoleon, flash over the too-familiar face.

 

"No," Illya said, ignoring the twinge in his chest and concentrating on the map. "I don't imagine that you are."

 

#

 

 

Oh.

 

Oh, _God_ , he hurt.

 

Napoleon tried to shift and couldn't. He hadn't missed this part of the job at all, waking up trussed like a turkey, fingers and toes numb from the bindings at his wrists and ankles and his head pounding like the Philharmonic tympani. Wherever it was he was lying was too hot, too humid, and stank with the smells of human bodies confined too long without relief – blood and sweat and other things he remembered far, far too well.

 

"Welcome to the madhouse, friend." The voice was male, raspy and … British? Familiar. Napoleon pried his eyes open.

 

The darkness was almost absolute at first, but a faint trickle of light began to shape the floor by his feet as his eyes adjusted. There was a body near him, above him. No, not near him. Next to him. He wasn't lying, but leaning, slumped against the side of a chair, and the warmth of another human being pressed along the back of his shoulder. His second effort to straighten and lift his head was more successful, although it wrung a soft grunt from him. "Gee," he managed, "and here I don't even remember buying a ticket."

 

The body beside him jerked. " _Hunt?_ "

 

Napoleon's breath caught. _Oh, you have_ _ **got**_ _to be kidding me._ No wonder the voice was familiar. "Ivan Trigorin, by chance?" he asked, his voice grating in his dry throat.

 

"Last time I checked, and no thanks to you," the other man said acidly. "What the hell are you playing at, General?"

 

"Not a thing; not one damn thing. I'm not him." His 'luck' had worked in myriad strange ways over the years, but this one quite possibly took the prize. Painfully, Napoleon turned. His first look at Ivan Trigorin made his breath catch again, familiar features picked out by the thin shaft of pitiful illumination that fell on them both from a small window high in the wall. "He and I have met, but I am not Hunt Stockwell," he said baldly, sensing that plain and blunt was the way to go here.

 

Eyes that he couldn't see the color of, but that he knew had to be blue, blinked, then narrowed as Trigorin studied him in the dim light. "Your eyes…maybe," he muttered. "If you're not, then you are his twin," he said, soft but harsh, challenging. In Russian.

 

Napoleon half-smiled, and his lip twinged, probably split. "Not unless my mother lied," he replied in the same language.

 

Trigorin's eyes widened. "You – are _not_ him, are you?" The tone held surprise, and speculation. "Your accent is completely different."

 

"Well, most of my practice has been with a Ukrainian. Who has _never_ been happy with my accent."

 

Dark blond eyebrows pulled together, a streak that was probably blood running through one of them. "Who are you?" he asked, in English now.

 

The grind of the door opening cut off his reply, and light slashed into the room. Trigorin winced, turning his head away. Napoleon squinted, his eyes tearing; even coming from behind him, the sudden brightness was painful. "Not who he was supposed to be," said a sharp, urban voice. "His name is Solo. Napoleon Solo."

 

He knew that voice too, didn't he? Napoleon turned his head toward the door and squinted at the man standing there. Well. Damn. It must be old home week in the spy business and nobody had told him. "Justin Sepheran. Nice to see you haven't forgotten me. But your style of guest accommodations seems to have suffered since we last met."

 

Sepheran laughed, no more pleasant a sound now than when Napoleon had last heard it, ten years earlier. "Mr. Solo, I have missed you! There is so little class in the spy game these days, it's all driven young things with no manners. Not that your lot was ever the height of etiquette either, Mr. Trigorin, although you had more class than that partner of yours."

 

Trigorin tensed. "You know me, then?"

 

An unpleasant smile lifted the corners of their captor's thin mouth. "How soon they forget. It seems only yesterday that we spoke in those splendidly decrepit rooms in the heat of old Havana. Did the mustache make such a difference, then? And here I had thought that we were such _good_ friends, _Reynaldo_ ," he said, fluid syllables that Napoleon's still-aching brain took a few moments to translate after he recognized the language: Spanish. Not one of his best, but close enough to Italian to be understandable.

 

Trigorin obviously understood it; his body went from tense to rigid against Napoleon's shoulder. "Cuba? _Angelo?_ " he breathed. " _Alive?_ But how did you … oh my God. You. We _were_ set up. It was _you_." The sentence slurred from Spanish to English and into Russian obscenities filthy enough to possibly have made Illya blush.

 

Sepheran merely raised an eyebrow. "Ah, Reyno, that sounded unkind. Still a temper, I see. Yes, of course I set you up," he said, quite matter-of-fact. "But it was you who chose to speak."

 

" _Why?!_ " Fury, and anguish. "They were your _friends_ , Angelo, we were, who – "

 

"Friends?" The contempt in Sepheran's voice cut Trigorin off short. "Even if we were, you really think that would have made a difference? Please. My orders were quite clear. Javelin had to go. It was interfering with our operations in Cuba and the islands. Havana was quite convenient for us; we couldn't have you upsetting the balance of power the way you were. We had almost broken your group, you know, before you and Stockwell jumped in. You were simply a quicker means to that end. And of course, the Cubans…ah, now _they_ wanted Hunt Stockwell. Badly. I must admit that I'm impressed that you managed to get him out alive." He stepped closer, his smile cold. "How much of your soul did you sell for him, Ivan Yurievich?"

 

The sound Trigorin made then wasn't quite human. The man literally vibrated – with rage, if Napoleon had to guess.

 

"And you, Mr. Solo – such an interesting, unexpected bonus. What am I to do with you?"

 

The question, Napoleon figured, was purely rhetorical. But – bonus? "Angelo," he said, musingly. "Angel. Sepheran, seraphim. Very cute."

 

"But of course. I must climb ever higher, and angels have wings."

 

"As do birds. Such as, for example, the common THRUSH."

 

"Common? Oh, never that," Sepheran retorted, eyes flashing. "And I've flown a great deal higher since last we met."

 

"Since you disappeared and hid, you mean?" Napoleon said, tilting his head, ignoring the way his neck muscles protested. "Enjoy the moment, because your freedom will be short now that you've finally reappeared."

 

"With _you_ here now as a bargaining chip? Oh, I think not, Mr. Solo. Freedom should be the least of the guarantees U.N.C.L.E. will pay for your life."

 

"No more now than they would have when I was in the field, Sepheran. U.N.C.L.E. is bigger than any individual."

 

"Really? That can't be good for your ego. But I'll wager that your former partner doesn't feel the same way. How is Mr. Kuryakin these days?"

 

"Walking," Napoleon growled. "Despite your best efforts."

 

"Pity. Perhaps we will get that corrected this time around."

 

"What is this all about, Angelo?" Trigorin cut in, spitting the name out as though it left a foul taste on his tongue. "Why am I here?"

 

"Because it seemed like the perfect opportunity to finish what we started all those years ago in Cuba, my friend! And since Stockwell didn't quite manage to kill you the last time that you two met, I thought I'd give him another chance. He's been making rather a nuisance of himself lately, you know, with his quest, stirring up things best left alone. So we thought it best to simply pick the both of you up, let you have your little show-down away from prying eyes.

 

"But as you are here instead, Mr. Solo, we will have to postpone that bit of fun until we can have the general join us." He favored Napoleon with a shark's smile. "And see if we can get the intrepid Mr. Kuryakin to the party as well."

 

Napoleon's gut tightened. "Illya is out of your reach. You won't penetrate U.N.C.L.E.."

 

"I have you, Solo. _No one_ is out of my reach. Rest up, both of you. You will need it." Sepheran turned and walked out, and a typically beefy-looking THRUSH goon came into a view for a moment before the door swung to with suitably atmospheric groaning, followed by a thud.

 

"Well, one thing hasn't changed. THRUSH still wants to talk you to death before they do the actual deed," Napoleon muttered, going to work on the ropes around his wrists.

 

"THRUSH?" Trigorin sounded calm, but Napoleon heard the effort it took. "I though they had gone down."

 

Napoleon shook his head, and regretted it. "Gone further underground. We've dealt them some good blows, but they've just dug in and rebuilt. Sepheran's one of the old-timers, we've been looking for him for years, but he vanished after almost killing my partner. Until now." He grimaced as his bonds abraded his skin as he pulled at them. Not much give, but possibly enough. And blood would make a decent lubricant, if he had to. Blood and sweat. Christ, but it was sweltering in here.

 

" _Pa russki_ ," Trigorin murmured. "I do not think he speaks it. You have dealt with these people before; if we get free, can we get out?"

 

"Done it more times than I care to count." The fluid gutturals of Illya's mother tongue tasted like comfort in Napoleon's mouth.

 

"We'll need a boat or aircraft. This is an island, I know that much."

 

Napoleon snorted. "Figures. Somewhere hot, too. Equitorial, maybe, from the humidity. Caribbean, or Central, South America. I'd bet Caribbean."

 

"Why?"

 

"THRUSH had half the islands bought or stolen, seemed like, back when I was in the field. They are nothing like original."

 

"I'm not fond of the Caribbean," Trigorin muttered.

 

Napoleon looked over at him. _No, I don't guess you are_.

 

#

 


	6. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Sparky

 

 

 

He'd been afraid, when he'd made himself try for a little rest, that he would dream. He was right.

 

Illya woke with a gasp and a jerk, staring wildly for a few moments until the muted shrill of the jet engines reminded him of where he was – at thirty thousand feet, somewhere between New York and Mexico City. And why.

 

_Napoleon…_. Ah, god, he shouldn't, he shouldn't, but…. Illya closed his eyes and fell back against the bed, and gave in to the memories….

 

 

_"An airplane bunk is not big enough for this."_

 

_"What, and an airplane bathroom is?" Hot brown eyes full of mischief met his over the length of his own naked torso. "We've been in tighter spots,_ _**tovarishch** _ _."_

 

_"When we were younger and more flexible, yes."_

 

_"So? Now we're older and more inventive. How about…."_

 

_"What are you…oh."_

 

_"Yes, oh. Think you can handle a little 'mutual admiration'?"_

 

_"I can handle," wrapping his fingers around the beloved flesh now so close to his mouth, "anything you can give. The real question is, can you," giving the head an affectionate lick, tonguing the edge of the foreskin and smiling as his lover's breath hitched, "stay quiet enough that everyone else will not know what Number One, Section One is up to?"_

 

_That brilliant smile looked every bit as wicked upside down as it did right side up, possibly moreso. "That, my dear partner – " a stubbled cheek rubbed against hypersensitive skin and he bit back a noise of his own, "—is what you are for."_

 

_Hotwettight engulfed him and he arched helplessly into it, the noise escaping this time. A peculiar sound from below, almost a laugh, vibration against his cock and he pulled, filling his mouth with his lover and sucking to prevent any more sounds escaping him. More vibrations as his lover groaned around him and he bucked against the pressure on his good hip, endorphins muting the constant, lingering ache of the bad one and leaving only the pleasure shooting like lightning up his spine._

 

_His fingers curled around the sweet curve of buttock and the soft weight of testicles, already tight, jaw aching so good from the stretch, smelling earthy musk and tasting salt-bitter that was like no other, that said partner, lover to him, the deep mouth and hard suction that knew him like no other, took him, cherished him, gave him everything and demanded everything he had, his alone, his,_ _**Napoleon** _ _–_

 

 

Illya fell back against the bed again, wrung out and panting, eyes closed. Riding the wave of feeling, the near-tangible memories of Napoleon's fingers, mouth, until the comfort grew cold and the real world, implacable bastard that it was, would no longer be denied. Stupid to do this here, really, the cabin walls were paper-thin, but he couldn't be the first and surely wouldn't be the last. Something tickled by his ear. He wiped his hand and reached to investigate and his fingertips came away with another kind of wet. A rueful smile. That had happened then, as well, but probably not for the same reason. How pathetic. Lying here like a – if Napoleon could see him now – what was that? He sat up, listening.

 

A faint, familiar voice.

 

Swinging his feet to the floor, Illya inclined his head to the left, toward the cabin they'd put Stockwell in. The two rooms shared one of those paper-thin walls.

 

The sound came again, so familiar. Too familiar – a strong man forced to give voice to some emotion too great to bear in silence. And this time he heard it clearly: a name. " _Vanya_."

 

The diminutive of Ivan.

 

Illya propped elbows on knees and leaned his face into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut, half-choked by a wave of sympathy he in no way wanted to feel.

 

#

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

They'd barely made the offices of U.N.C.L.E./Mexico City when the call came, patched through from New York.

 

Illya's hands clenched on the edge of the communications console that he stood in front of, Stockwell next to him. "Justin Sepheran."

 

"You do remember. I'm delighted."

 

"I'm not." The last time he'd heard that voice, his world had shattered. It could not be coincidence that he was hearing it again now.

 

A sigh. "You never did have quite your partner's grasp of the verbal niceties, did you, Mr. Kuryakin? A shame." 

  
Illya's hands tightened on the console until his fingers squeaked against the metal. "What do you want, Sepheran?"

 

"Do you play cards, Mr. Kuryakin? Games of chance? No, as I remember, that was Mr. Solo. Poker, I believe."

 

The repeated past tense was sending ice up Illya's spine.

 

"Symmetry, Mr. Kuryakin; symmetry. I am something of a collector, and pairs are such interesting things. Two matched pairs, in this case. So rare, and so valuable."

 

"Get to the point," Illya said, trying not to talk through his teeth. His jaw ached from the strain.

 

"Ah, very well. As I suspect you have guessed, Napoleon Solo is currently my guest here at my little vacation hideaway, as is another dear old friend of mine. Perhaps you've heard of him. Ivan Trigorin."

 

Then both men _were_ both still alive. Stockwell made a low sound and Illya threw up a hand, motioning for silence. "And if I had?"

 

"Why, then I would guess that you've heard of his former partner as well, General Hunt Stockwell. Once upon a time they were such good friends, those two, but now the general is less than pleased with his dear old Russian partner. Sad, really."

 

A small, aborted movement from Stockwell. Illya ignored it. "And this concerns me how, exactly?"

 

"It concerns you, Mr. Kuryakin, because I find that I'm inclined, out of the goodness of my heart, to give you a chance for a deal. A once in a lifetime offer, quite literally. My acquisition of Mr. Solo was actually a happy accident – happy for me, of course. My subordinates mistook him for the man I told them to find: Hunt Stockwell."

 

Illya's eyebrows shot up and he looked over at Stockwell. _Don't know him,_ the general mouthed, shaking his head. But his eyebrows were drawn hard together.

 

"I have something you want," Sepheran continued, "and you have something I want."

 

"Why are you so sure that I know where this Stockwell is?"

 

"Because he was seen walking into U.N.C.L.E.'s New York office, Mr. Kuryakin." The supercilious voice sharpened. "The general has been nosing about lately, stirring up issues best left alone. It was only a matter of time before he tried with the U.N.C.L.E.. So. The general is convinced his former partner is alive, despite the evidence, and he is correct – for the moment. If he wants Trigorin, then he must come to me. In return, you may have your Mr. Solo back."

 

"Just that easily," Illya said, letting himself sound the slightest bit upset, desperate.

 

"Oh, with an additional term or two, of course."

 

"Of course."

 

Illya looked hard at the furiously working communications technician, who abruptly sat up straight, a look of triumph on her face, and gave him a thumbs-up. They had the trace. He closed his eyes in relief.

 

"Mr. Kuryakin?"

 

"Damn it, Sepheran, just – a moment, yes?" He couldn't surrender too quickly, that would give the game away for sure. And even Napoleon's infamous luck might not be able to magic up another chance this time. He counted to ten. Silently. In Cantonese. "What terms? And I must speak to Mr. Solo."

 

"You don't trust that I have him, alive?"

 

"Trust has nothing to do with this. Tell me the terms and let me speak to him, he and Trigorin both."

 

A pause, and then a chuckle. "Well, well. Very good. With age comes wisdom, it seems."

 

"As you said earlier, I am not Mr. Solo. Come to the point." Illya's skin crawled in anticipation.

 

"It's quite simple. In exchange for the return of one Napoleon Solo, more or less undamaged, you will bring me Hunt Stockwell. _You_ will, Mr. Kuryakin, alone. And U.N.C.L.E. and all its branches will cease to oppose any and all actions of THRUSH for a period of no less than three years."

 

Simple. Elegant. Beautifully diabolical. Illya's fingers tightened spasmodically on the console again. Unopposed? In three years, THRUSH wouldn't just rebuild – they'd rule the world. "Even if I did," letting the revulsion color his voice, "Napoleon would never agree to it."

 

"But he won't have to, now, will he? It is you, Mr. Kuryakin – or should I more properly say Dr. Kuryakin – who is in charge of U.N.C.L.E.'s Intelligence Section. Information that is never acted upon is much like information never obtained at all. And you will see to that."

 

Oh yes. Beautifully diabolical. The horror Illya would not express was reflected on the features of the com tech, her pretty gray eyes wide.

 

Illya swallowed. "One year." The tech's eyes went wider, if that was possible.

 

Another chuckle from the speaker, uglier this time. "This is not a bargaining session, sir. Surely three years is not so much to pay for your lover's life."

 

Lover? Such a small, soft word to apply to the enormity of what Napoleon Solo was to him. Illya laughed, possibly startling himself as much as anyone else in the room. "Does THRUSH still spread that tired rumor, then? We were _partners_ , Sepheran, but I doubt you can comprehend that meaning." He hardened his voice to the tone Napoleon had always likened to "Siberian winter." " _One. year_. And I will need time to locate General Stockwell. You will give me three days."

 

"I will give you one day," Sepheran said, sounding amused. "And in one hour, Mr. Kuryakin, we will talk again, you and I and Mr. Solo. Such a pleasure doing business with you."

 

Dead air.

 

Illya let his head hang down between his shoulders for a few moments, trying to ease tense muscles. "Where?" he asked.

 

"Here, sir," the tech said quietly, fingers dancing over her boards.

 

Her printer chattered. Illya ripped off the section of greenbar paper and read the coordinates, and nodded. Off the Central American coast, just as the short contact with Napoleon's homing device had indicated. "Get a helicopter ready for immediate departure, long range, passenger capacity, stealth package, comsec uplink, full armament."

 

"Personnel, sir?"

 

Illya shook his head once. "No additional personnel."

 

"Nicely played, Doctor," Stockwell said, then raised his eyebrows. "I trust that was, in fact, a play?" His arms were folded across his chest, dark eyes veiled by the ugly aviator glasses.

 

"Of course it was," the com tech said sharply. Both men turned to look at her. She swallowed, but held her ground. Something in Illya's gut eased just a fraction, and he winked at her before looking back at Stockwell.

 

"It seems you were correct in your previous supposition, General." Illya eyed the other man, seeing everything that made him – not Napoleon. "I am going to need you."

 

#

 

 

"So, you are Napoleon Solo, of U.N.C.L.E.," Trigorin said.

 

"I'm afraid so."

 

"I've heard of you."

 

Napoleon's mouth twitched. "I'm not surprised. The Command can't keep the low profile it once had, although we try."

 

"The agencies have always known each other. I meant, I've heard of _you_. Your partner was Russian."

 

Trigorin's voice was low and intent and just wrong enough that the difference jabbed Napoleon under his ribs. "He still is. First Soviet agent in U.N.C.L.E. Northwest. 1959." He smiled at the wall. "We embraced _glasnost_ long before the cool kids were doing it."

 

"What did Angelo…Sepheran do to him?"

 

"Dropped a building on him." Napoleon's smile hardened. He still tasted the concrete dust coating the back of his throat, felt the grit and splinters tearing his hands as he clawed through the debris. "But Illya's very hard to kill."

 

"And you are still…together." The absolute evenness of the tone would be a dead give-away, if this were Illya. But it wasn't.

 

Napoleon craned around to look at Trigorin. "He is also very hard to lose," he said quietly. _Unless he wants to be. Thank God_.

 

"How do you know the general?"

 

What was this, Twenty Questions to pass the time? But there was no reason not to say it. "He came to U.N.C.L.E. for assistance. To find you."

 

Trigorin's mouth twitched. "He's that certain that I'm not dead?" A snort. "Hunt is frequently too clever for his own good. So he hired you, to get another shot."

 

"No one _hires_ U.N.C.L.E.," Napoleon said evenly. "Not while I'm there. He's not looking to kill you, and I wouldn't let him, in any case."

 

Another snort. "Your pardon if I find that hard to believe."

 

"I think I've been insulted," Napoleon said lightly. "He gave me his word, unasked, that all he wants from you are answers. Is his word any good?"

 

A long pause. "Yes." Something crossed the Russian's face before he looked away. "Yes, it is. Assuming that we live long enough to put it to the test."

 

"We will. Sepheran's up to something big, and whatever it is, he wasn't planning on having me here for it. A bonus, he said. He didn't want me, he wanted Stockwell, but now that I'm here, he'll try and leverage that for all he can get." Napoleon's mind raced, sorting possibilities, ignoring the ache in his wrists as he continued to work at the ropes. "He's called U.N.C.L.E. already, certainly, to try blackmail of some sort. He's got to keep us alive at least long enough to use for that."

 

 

 

#


End file.
